“Go on,” said Choiseul, “I do not wish to pry into your personal affairs. Have you anything more to say?”
“Yes, monsieur. To make my escape, I had to take a horse that was standing in waiting. On it I reached Paris. In the saddle-bag I found a letter addressed by you to a lady—I have forgotten the name—I do not wish to pry into your private affairs.”
Choiseul’s face had changed slightly in colour, but otherwise he betrayed none of the emotion that filled him, except, Sartines noticed, by a slight twitching of his left shoulder.
“Ah!” said he, “you found a letter of mine!”
“Yes, monsieur, I entrusted it to a person, who is my very faithful servant, to take to the address upon it. Now, this person—knowing that I was in trouble with M. de Choiseul—thought fit to open the letter, an action most discreditable and only excusable inasmuch as it was prompted by an humble mind, blinded by devotion to my interests.
“The letter was put into my hands with a strong suggestion that the contents might be useful to me.”
“Now, M. le Duc, you will at once understand that, so far from making use of this letter, I did not even read it. It is in my pocket now, perfectly safe, and I have the honour of returning it to you.”
To Sartines’ horror, Rochefort put his hand in his pocket, took out the letter and gave it to Choiseul, who opened it, glanced at the contents and placed it on the mantelpiece as though it were of no importance.
“I have only to add, monsieur,” continued Rochefort, “that in Paris, instead of taking the wise course of returning to Versailles to seek re-arrest, I said to myself, ‘M. Choiseul is against me. I had better make my escape or at least keep concealed until the storm blows over.’ That was very foolish, but I was enraged about other matters and I did not think clearly, and now, monsieur, what is the charge against me?”
“You are charged, Monsieur de Rochefort, with the killing of a man in the streets of Paris on the very night upon which you were here as my guest last.”